Anatomy of Pie
by sporkingly
Summary: Booth's birthday. Bones has a promise to deliver on.
1. Sex is Highway

A long stretch of highway, illuminated in the orange-y glow of the sun setting somewhere in the distance. A blinding white light sections the road in two. It isn't a broken line either with tick, tick, tick dashes that begs you to venture to the other side. No. This line is solid, a partition. It is a strong indication that clearly states do not pass. Do not cross.

You hate that fucking line.

You stand on one side while she's on the opposite, facing each other. Both of you glance down, staring at the silent enemy. You want to say something – ask where y'all are, what y'all are doing here – yet you can't find your voice enough to speak. She's dressed in business attire but not her usual Jeffersonian getup, even sans lab coat. Your brain registers the tight, gray pencil skirt first. It's trying to recall something you can't quite grasp. The ocean blue, silk top sets off her eyes to where they're practically radiating in the last rays of sun. The chunky jewelry reminds you that it's still her, but the three inch fuck-me-now-please heels are new. You like, oh how you like. Her hair is trapped up in a simple ballerina bun, not a wisp or curl out of place. The piece de resistance, though, is the severe, black horn rimmed glasses. The whole picture together speaks of a stern librarian that is worthy of her own series of wet dreams.

Jesus Christ, so she does remember China.

She smirks, almost as if she read your mind. It's the one she gets when a witness accidentally lets some fact slip that somehow scientifically explains that they were the murderer. Some obscure detail that any normal person wouldn't think twice about. It's the smirk that screams of I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know. It has the equal power to infuriate and turn you on. Right now it's the latter because all you want to do is bite her plump bottom lip.

The glasses go first. She tongues one of the stems before carelessly tossing them over her shoulder. The sound of the lenses breaking into shards spikes your blood pressure. The hair is next, yanked out of place then shook to tumble down her back and across her shoulders. It's something you've imagined doing a thousand times. One, two earrings followed by a necklace are the next victims. The beads scatter against the pavement. By the time she has stretched up to slip the first tiny, white dress button from its place, you are sweating. She savors the path down her blouse, and your eyes riveted on her every movement. When all the buttons are free from their confines, the shirt gapes open to give you a tantalizing glimpse of the bra underneath. An expert on the body, her shoulders roll back and in one fluid movement the silk slides down her arms to flutter to the ground.

Hell, it's not a bra. It's a bustier… some royal blue and lace contraption that pushes her breasts up to where they are a breath away from spilling over the edge. You want to taste every inch of her skin. You want to taste, lick, suck and nip until she's panting and coming apart in your arms. Anticipation fills you as her hands move again. The sound of the zipper echoes in the deserted strip of sex highway. A slow swivel of her hips causes the skirt to pool at her feet. She steps out of the garment and flings it behind her with the back of a heel with such natural ease it's as if she's done this in front of you a hundred times before. But you aren't sure if you are still breathing, probably not. The lack of oxygen to your brain would surely produce the hallucination that has been revealed under the skirt. Miles of leg encased in thigh high stockings.

You stare at her like a fourteen year old with his first playboy. What's beyond the stockings you ask? More lace, enough skin to bring you within seconds away from exploding but hiding just enough to drive you insane. You've never given much thought to boyshorts before, but at this moment you find them sexier than anything else you could have envisioned. And you've envisioned a lot. She moves, really moves, for the first time as her heeled foot takes a step. You swear you can smell her arousal.

Her movements ooze promise until she's standing straight on top of the line and opens her legs, drawing your gaze to their apex. The position gives her a wide base of support to lean forward and wrap her fingers around your tie to pull you flush against her. Her breasts are pillowed against you. You swear that even through your clothes you can feel their tips, pronounced and delicious. There is no way she doesn't feel your hardness pressed snug against her stomach. She cocks her head to the side once… then there's that smirk again. She clasps your hand in hers to reach behind her back and settle your fingers on the clasps of the bustier.

"It's just a line," she states, plunging your mouth with hers.

* * *

Booth's pulse was racing, ragged as his eyes popped open like a shot. The clock on his nightstand said he still had ten minutes till his alarm was due to go off. He flopped back against the mattress and tried to catch his breath. He felt as if he had run a mile. Even from this angle, he could see the spectacular morning wood he was sporting.

"Fuck," he breathed, "that was intense."

Geez, he was getting too old for this. He had barely even touched her – even fantasy her – and he was more amped up than most of the satisfying experiences in life. But, damn. Staring in a series in wet dreams had more than hit the mark. Firm and erotic biblio-Bones had been showing up in various settings at the Booth nightly theater for months now. There was something about that quietly restrained power that called to him. He never knew if he wanted to have that subtle control turned solely on him or if he wanted to possess her until she was tumbling wildly _out_ of control. As long as she was under, over, all around him to where all that was left of them was a tangle of sweaty limbs everything else was frosting on the pie.

_Mmm, Bones and pie. Okay you're not helping things, Seel_.

Flipping off the alarm, Booth slid out of bed. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he resisted the urge to laugh. Four decades old and his libido dying down had no end in sight… thank God. But, yes, he was forty years old today. He didn't know how he felt about being "middle aged" yet. Last year's birthday had been such a clusterfuck that he had been silent about the big four oh. Which was why he was doubly surprised when Bones had sprung a birthday dinner invitation on him last week.

Moving into his bathroom, he recalled their ride in the SUV on the way back to the lab from a witness' home. He knew even before he shucked his boxers and turned on the shower that thinking about their conversation while in his current state was a bad idea. However, it was his birthday and even he wasn't a masochist enough to deny himself on his birthday.

As his hand came up to turn the shower knob to hot, his mind remembered how her slender fingers had spun the dial on the radio so the music hushed to a whisper. "Your birthday is Wednesday." She stated in her ever present factual tone.

He stole a side long glance at her. "Yes, it is."

A feeling had climbed up his neck then. He could feel that something was hovering on the precipice. Well, that was an understatement. Something, _everything_ was hovering between them lately. But, Bones had the habit of springing bombshells on him leading with that I-Could-Be-Talking-About-The-Weather manner.

Like when she told him out of professional courtesy that she was going to kiss him  
Like when she announced that she wanted a baby during Sweets stupid psychology game

"You haven't mentioned celebrating." She said with a slight frown.

It had been a fight to keep his eyes on the road instead of stopping to figure out what she was thinking. "I have Parker the night before and we'll go to dinner. Then in the morning I'll pretend like I don't know he's making a mess of my kitchen as he makes his old man a chocolate pancake breakfast." Speaking of, Booth wondered when he'd hear the clank of pans colliding against each other and the distinct smack of egg on the floor.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Booth stepped under the warm spray and let Bones' next words wash over him. "Booth, it's your fortieth birthday. Don't you think you need some adult stimuli?"

Then his hand traveled lower, and he let out a moan that was thankfully muffled by the rushing water. This time, he didn't need a fantasy, setting, or costume. He indulged himself, thrusting into his hand, as he remembered the way her eyes had softened. She looked out the window of the SUV for a moment before turning back to him, almost as if she were nervous. Bones was never nervous. "I wish to cook you dinner." Her statement had been sure, but he could detect the smallest trace of vulnerability.

God, she had only asked him to dinner but his hand pumped faster as if she had said she wanted to suck him dry. He groaned and his head fell forward to rest on the tile wall.

"Really?" He replied, swallowing. Even then he had hardened.

She nodded once. "Yes, for your birthday. I believe last year I made you a promise."

His hand was flying now, tugging. She had made him a promise. She sprouted a bunch of squity, anthropological babble about baubles and plumage that would make any sane person think of peacocks. Two, three more passes over himself and his orgasm took over. He came fast and endless, making him feel a little lightheaded. Yes, everyone may have not have understood her words but he heard them loud and clear. She was going to look at him, only him.

And being the single target of Temperance Brennan's focus, man what a heady combination.

**Is it a teensy bit hot in here? Depending on how everyone feels about my first foray into true M, this may turn into a three or four shot piece. The whole line/highway image took hold of my brain last night. Like I said, this is my first time to go beyond innuendo and implication so do please lemme know what you think. Much appreciated. **

**Oh, and because it's an obligation to state pride…. SAINTS GOIN TO THE SUPERBOWL! WHO DAT!**


	2. Pi is Love

_Monday - two days earlier:_

"I finished the facial reconstruction," Angela declared as she laid a color, computer-designed image along with a black and white sketch on the desk. "I went ahead and did the drawing too so Booth could start flashing it around. I gave her sad eyes, anything else on her face seemed off."

Brennan stopped typing the report she was writing for Cam to look at her friend. Booth felt with his Gut and Angela could See things about people. She didn't understand it, but she had learned that statistically they were more than often correct. And on very few occasions, she sensed something akin to jealousy at their natural gifts of the invisible. "Thanks, Angela. I'll let him know you've finished. Do you have a pie tin?"

Angela blinked once before arching a shapely eyebrow. "A pie tin?" Talking with Bren was often like driving down a freeway when one wasn't completely sure of where they were going. Lanes changed quickly and without warning. She didn't appreciate the value of a segue way much less use them.

"Yes, as in a pan where its intended use is to bake pies in. I know that after your first break up with Roxie you became versed in baking for a short time."

"I know what a pie tin is, Bren." She said with a roll of her eyes. "You intend to make a pie?"

"Yes, for Booth. His birthday is on Wednesday."

Her bangle bracelets jangled together as her hand came to rest on a jutted out hip. "You want to bake Booth a pie for his birthday?"

"Yes," Brennan asserted for the third time in a row. "Why do you keep repeating everything I say in the form of a question?"

"Maybe because the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Angela quoted with a self satisfied smirk.

Brennan's brow knitted in confusion. "I don't what that means. It's anatomically impossible for the heart and the stomach to be connected unless the person was born with severe abnormalities leaving them unlikely to live. The heart is a part of the circulatory system while the stomach centers in the digestive system."

Best friend or no best friend, Angela sometimes wondered how Bren had conversations with normal people without getting strangled. She was _literally_ the most literal person on the planet. "It's a figure of speech. It means that you try to get a man to love you or show that you love him by cooking for him."

"How do the two equate? It seems illogical."

"I don't know, not everything has to be logical. It's just one of those girly things. It shows that you took time out of your life to care for them, to feed and nourish them. "

"I thought we established with Sully that I'm not very good a being a girl." Though thoughts of Sully still hurt a little, Brennan was proud that she didn't conform to the conventional roles for her sex.

"We did. Now lemme ask you this, did you ever cook for Sully?"

"He made a sandwich at my apartment once. And he often had coffee and other breakfast items when he stayed over post coitus."

Angela's eyes strayed heavenward as she prayed for strength. She grasped the arm of the side chair to pull it closer to the desk before sitting down. "Okay Sweetie, there is not enough time to explain the oh so many reasons you never need to say the word coitus. When you and Booth hit the sheets, don't ever describe your delicious sexual romp as coitus… biological urges, copulation, and fornication are also off limits for that matter. Trust me, it wouldn't have ended pretty. "

"You seem to infer that because I'm making dinner for Booth that I love him more than I cared for Sully in addition to it being inevitable that we have sex." Brennan shook her head. "Angela, you know I don't like psychology."

She smiled. "I know, damn those soft sciences. You're making dinner _and_ dessert for him?"

"I am making macaroni and apple pie." Brennan didn't know if she liked how Angela kept honing in on infinitesimal word choices in her speech. "He seemed to enjoy the macaroni I made for him after the Carly Victor case. Why, do you think those are poor choices?"

"No," she said thinking that they were definitely talking at another time about her previously making dinner for her real life Andy. Plus, the fact that she was concerned whether or not her dinner guest would enjoy her meal choices was a big tell. "Those are perfect choices. After all, love is like pi - natural, irrational, and very important."

An unbidden laugh escaped Brennan. "Did you just craft a humorous simile by using malapropism to exchange the food pie with the numerical expression pi? That doesn't sound like you."

The artist looked down and fidgeted with the rings on her left hand. "Yah… I can't believe I'm telling you this… Hodgins wrote it in a Valentine's Day card to me once. It seemed fitting here, figured you'd better relate to love if I put it in terms with something you're familiar with."

"It is an apt definition than I can identify with," Brennan was now okay with admitting that the feelings she felt for her parents, Russ, Angela, even Booth had more to do with chemicals running rampant in the brain. But, that was all like family love. Angela was talking about the romantic. "However, I fail to see how making a meal for Booth signifies that I love him."

"Um alright, let me think." There was silence for a few moments before Angela clapped her hands together. "Okay, I got it. This will give you some hard data to analyze. When you were little and got sick, did your parents ever make you certain food that always made you feel better, loved even?"

"Dad would bring me snickerdoodles from the bakery on the corner," a wistful smile bloomed across her face, "and my mom's chicken wild rice soup worked wonders on a sore throat." A handful of seconds and one small shake of the head later, and Tempe was back to being Dr. Brennan. "You said, however, that the expression was gender specific to males."

Yes, definitely the most literal person on the planet. "The meaning behind the phrase applies to everyone in all types of relationships. It is often tied to men especially because they think with their stomachs."

"I don't know what –"

"I'll bring the tin in tomorrow." Angela interrupted before she could be lectured on how there has never been evidence of brain wave activity in the abdominal cavity. She stood up and adjusted the hem of her dress over her tights. "Just remember to get some good pictures of Booth without his skivvies for me."

"Thank you, Angela." Brennan said, throwing her friend a pointed glance.

Almost out the door, the artist spun back on her heel. "Bear in mind that if you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."

"Another colloquialism?" she guessed.

"I guess. It's something silly they say on all the cooking shows. Ken Segman… Calvin Sagone or somebody."

Brennan's eyes lit up. "Dr. Carl Sagan? He's an astronomer that is credited in numerous anthropological texts for coining the statement 'You have to know the past to understand the present.' He is quite philosophical."

"Well there ya go," Angela grinned, "a man of science who also knows his bake goods."

* * *

_Wednesday_

Her kitchen counter looked like the before scene from one of Zack and Hodgin's ill advised experiments.

Laptop streaming with numerous videos, beakers filled with sugar and flour, surgical knife, a bowl full of fresh McIntosh apples, and of course Angela's pie tin filled her vision. Brennan slipped a blue paisley apron over her neck and tied it around her waist, trying to envision herself donning her lab coat. Normally, cooking didn't intimate her. She was an intelligent, well accomplished woman. Eatable items were not anything to fear. Knowing however that she only had a single chance to do this to an exceptional degree – perfect did not exist in reality – with no room for error was unnerving.

Her request to make dinner for him had been a whim. Well, not precisely. She had known that she wanted to cook for him again for a long time. It seemed fitting after all the times he had shown up to her apartment with take out in hand. Plus, he did seem genuinely touched the only and last time she had prepared food for him. Yet, she hadn't really planned for it to be on his birthday. When she asked after his plans, she expected him to have some sort of celebration lined up. Maybe even the trip to Hawaii he did not get to indulge in last year. Then he said that all he had going on was a little bit of father/son time, and the invitation came tumbling out of her mouth before her brain had time to catch up.

Deciding on what to make had been difficult. She knew that it shouldn't have been. She had a cookbook or two that she hadn't actually looked through before. Nonetheless, she tore through their pages over the last seventy two hours. Nothing seemed suitable. Then Sunday night the proverbial light bulb people always spoke of lit up while she was sleeping. At three in the morning, she had found herself in her office lifting a pretty wooden box containing recipes.

Carly Victor. Though she had only met the woman once, she seemed connected to her somehow. Perhaps it was because she had been the only body, besides her own mother, she'd worked on that she had ever known personally. About a month after the case was closed she received a package from Carly's husband, Dan. Knowing that Carly's Table would have to close without its namesake, they redesigned her pending cookbook to include dozens more of her recipes that had previously been close kept secrets. The package contained a touching letter stating that she had made a real impression on Carly and thanking her for not letting anyone, including himself, stand in the way of finding out what happened to his wife. Also in the package was the manuscript for the cookbook, featuring her unpublicized notes in the margin.

Brennan gently lifted the pages out of the ornate keepsake box. Written on the first page in Carly's lilted sprawl was, _My Table is Your Table _beneath that it said, _Recipes are merely a guide… the best cooking skill you can have is go with your instincts._

The recipe collection was very eclectic – it had bolognaise, salads, bbq chicken, casseroles, quiche, lamb, even nachos. Yet, her eye kept being drawn to the famous, award-winning macaroni and cheese. Although she had already made it for him before, she couldn't get his comments of _God's best handiwork_ and _I'd like to be alone with it_ out of her head. Dessert had been an easy choice, pie. What type of pie to make took a little longer. She had watched Booth inhale blackberry and key lime and everything else in between. He claimed that he didn't have a favorite.

Eventually she settled on apple. Booth had told her once that there was nothing more American than apple pie and baseball. Even though the sentiment was highly incorrect since baseball originated from a British game known as rounders and apple pies have been baked as early as the fourteenth century, she couldn't think of a person who personified the American spirit more than Booth.

After much research, Brennan concluded that she favored Alton Brown of Food Network the best given that he often gave scientific explanations for his instructions. She pulled up the apple pie page of his website and closed all the other windows. Manned with her laptop on her left and Carly's Grandmamma-Homemade Apple Pie recipe on her right, she was finally ready to jump into the abyss.

With the surgical knife, she cut up the six ounces of unsalted butter into roughly half inch cubes then did the same to two ounces of shortening. She added them to already semi blended flour, salt, and sugar in the belly of the food processor. She tapped the button once to gently (Carly had underlined gently twice) combine the new mixture before sprinkling five tablespoons of applejack to the fusion. Satisfied that it looked crumbly (_like the inside of a cookie that has been baked for too long_ her notes advised), Brennan moved on to beat an egg yolk and three-fourths of a tablespoon of icy water together. She fed the egg and water into a Pasteur pipette so that she could gradually drizzle it into the dough until it formed a ball.

She coated her granite counter and rolling pin with a copious amount of flower to avoid everything from sticking. The dough ball was divided into half first, then rolled out (_Strive to roll in one direction!_) into two disk like shapes. She removed the latex gloves she was wearing to grab the plastic wrap from on top of the microwave. Once the disks were covered in the plastic, she used her foot to edge open the refrigerator door and place them inside.

After setting the oven timer for an hour to let the dough chill, Brennan walked down the hall to her bedroom. She intended to lay down to merely rest her eyes, but the next the her brain registered was outside her room.

Somewhere in the depths of your subconscious, you hear the door open. Heavy footfalls bring the spicy scent you could recognize anywhere – even within a sea of corpses – into your presence. You feel the silken sheets lift from your body followed by his muttered curse. You try and fail to keep your smile at bay.

Though your eyes flutter open, you can still feel sleep looming in them. "Hi," you whisper. His features can barely be made out in the dark, but that's okay. You've memorized them long ago.

He kneels on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Hi? I come home to find my wife topless in our bed… no pajama's, no nightie, not even my t-shirt… topless. All you wanna tell me is hi?"

"Hi honey, you're home?" you try, lifting your hand up to wrap around his neck. He falls down next to you, lips meeting yours gently. "Mmm, you smell good."

"Glad you think so. I feel like shit," he says, laying open mouthed kisses across your jaw and down your neck.

You pull until you can roll completely under him. "Then shit agrees with you." You shove your nose up under his chin and sniff like a dog on the hunt. "Is that gunpowder? Sexy. What have you been doing?" Your question comes out with a pant like quality up against his ear.

His hands, warm and rough, slide to your ribcage brushing just under your breasts. His mouth dips once again to yours. "Blowing off steam, Wendell and I went to the gun range earlier for a bit." His hands slide lower, fingers toying with the waist of your underwear. "You never told me why you're topless?"

You blink and grin at him. "Since when do I need a reason?"

A growl rumbles deep in his throat. You can feel the vibrations against your collarbone. "Good point." The leg that has found its way between yours brushes against your center for a moment in retaliation. "We gotta talk about what's going on at The Lab."

He grasps your hands to sit you up while you're shaking your head. You want what's going on at work to simply be a nightmare you can wake up from. "They all love you, you know. Loyal to a fault… did you make the call about Vincent and Zack."

Resting on the leg that's still between yours, he holds you. "Yes, I talked to Caroline. She's working as fast as she can so you can have your assistant back." He pauses so his mouth can engage with yours. "They love you too, which is why people in our team keep ending up in jail. We gotta talk about this, Bones. Angela says she's too pretty to be sent to prison."

Tugging the straps of his spenders off, you make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. "Bones," you sigh as your palms skim over his abdomen and down… down to his hard shape thinly concealed by his dress pants. "What charming names you call me."

"Would you prefer sugar pie o' wife of mine?" You pout, and his lips strike your extended ones playfully. "I thought so. Your husband is a reformed gambler. Therefore you have to be the Queen of Bones, Bones."

His belt buckle comes apart easily. One solid yank is all it takes for the leather to slide smoothly from its loops. "I don't think playing dominoes with my nine year old step son qualifies me for that title."

"Parker adores you." He states with tenderness that makes you want to cry. "As do I, Bones."

You toy with his zipper for a moment before easing it downward, relishing in the sound it makes. "To which bones are you referring to, there are two hundred and six you know."

"So you told me." His words brush over you with his warm breath, making you wonder how he can make such a banal sentence sound utterly sexy. His teeth then bite on your earlobe in rapid little nips before sucking on the skin underneath. "Bones," he tries again. Without hesitation, your hand delves beneath his boxers to his cock. You pump him in a tightly closed grip, the nail of your thumb gently teasing his head. He moans. "Ugn, woman, fuck. What are you doing?"

"Don't call me Bones," you say in a sing-song voice.

For long minutes nothing but the sound of y'all's mutual pleasure fill the bedroom. He's actively bumping, rocking you against his leg now. You don't know how he's blindly hitting your clit with just the right about of pressure every time, and at the moment you don't have the ability to care. Nor to you know why y'all are grinding against each other half dressed like y'all are sixteen in the backseat of his car with twenty minutes left until your curfew. "Ohh," you mumble in a throaty tone as your hand slides faster over him. In turn, he finally – finally! – shimmies his long fingers to wear you want them most.

You are both panting now, climbing up the edge of the cliff. He is thrusting into your palm while simultaneously lifting his hips to counter act your short pivots alongside his leg. Bending forward, his mouth melds with yours as he sucks on your tongue. You can tell he is on the verge of either letting go control or begging off until he's inside you. One forceful twist of your hand and jerk of your hips gives him your vote.

"Stop, stop, baby," he stutters out of breath. He removes your hand from his waist before leveling his upon your shoulders. "Focus, someone was murdered at our place."

"Where people think you're a killer and I'm an adulterer," you say as your resist the urge to whine at him for stopping your fun. "At least we aren't boring."

He scrubs his face in frustration. "No, we are not. But, what are we gonna do about The Lab?"

The look on his face makes you pause and take him more seriously. It's difficult though, since he already got you riled up then left you hanging, dripping. "We are going to let your brother and his 'partner,'" you laugh and hold back the wish to finger quote your description of Cam, "do their job. You are a good person, I'm a good person. We have good people on our team. We didn't do this. Eventually the murderer will be caught and life will go back to normal."

You indulge him in a tender kiss before licking your palm, lapping up his pre-cum with your tongue. "Hmm tasty, much more than the Tower of Wings."

His dark chocolate eyes turn impossibly black. A choked sounds stumbles through gritted teeth. If you were any other person, you'd have every right to be scared. As it is, you clearly know you are in for it. Your thighs twitch together in anticipation.

"Y-you… you… wench!" He finally says and you can't help but laugh at the medieval name. "I can't talk about this with you when you are licking my…" he trails off gesturing to the impressive erection between the two of you.

"Cum," you supply as you smack your lips together. "Sex is nothing to be a prude about."

He hums in his throat. "Well, I can't be serious when you are tasting me. Not to mention that you're tits keep staring at me."

"What," you giggle – a sound you don't make often. "They are staring at you? Illogical. It's just glands and fat, Booth. No optical nerves there."

He doesn't answer right away because he has already poured you back on the bed, his mouth descending. He closes the tip, pert and aching. "Boo-oth," you babble, "oh yes. Mmmm, harder."

"Shhh," he whispers and you shudder from the ripple it causes over you. "I'm trying to have a conversation here." The edge of his teeth teases your sensitive skin. "And no fat, only gorgeousness." His hand replaces his mouth so he can lavish the other one with the same attention. He sucks you roughly then soothes the puckered skin with his tongue. "I don't want you to go back to The Lab until we find out who did this."

There is a stretched out instant where the chaos of neurons in your brain scramble to make sense of his words. "What!" You yell, not amused, as you try to cuff the side of his head. "That's my job. I'm not fighting with you on this."

He avoids looking at you but speaks to your nipple. "Not fighting, bickering. Foreplay." Then he picks up where he left off. His thumbs rub hypnotizing circles over you as his hips resume their pace against your own. He shows no mercy as he sucks, bites, and laves your breasts in tandem.

"Fuck, I can't…" you grasp for the breath you can't quite reach, "can't th-think. God, Boooth!"

Suddenly he stops all of it, every nuisance. Thunder claps inside your skull. "Fine, you choose:" His smile is lop-sided because he knows he has you in his cross hairs, "fucking or fighting?"

You let out maddening screech that comes out far more wanton than you intended as your launch yourself at his pants. "I need you now, please." You know that you will care later that you're begging him. "I'll yell at you after."

It takes him less than a second to divest you both of the rest of your clothing. His mouth swallows your keening cry as he slides inside you all the way to the hilt in one stroke. You savor the half of dozen thrusts he gives you, fast and rhythmic, until an incessant beeping bursts the image of the two of you together apart at the seams.

* * *

The oven timer continued to beep. It seemed like it was the only thing holding her to reality. When she first awoke, boneless yet not quite stated, Brennan didn't know what day, time, or year it was. His voice kept echoing in her head. _So real. It felt so real._ She hadn't truly understood it when he awoke from his operation, but now she was overly aware.

The story of two lovers she wrote while he was in a coma had been vivid to her then. In the same way she could sometimes nearly feel an ulna under her fingers as Kathy examined it. This though… this was another realm of reality entirely. She felt within every cell of her being that she was that woman. That _wife_. She itched to pick up her phone and call Booth demanding that they finish their argument.

Brennan sat up in bed. She had to clutch the sheet to combat the woozy feeling. Her feet dropped slowly to the floor and she waited until her legs felt solid before taking a step. Crossing the room, she stood in front of her full body mirror next to the dresser. She looked the same with the exception of the flush. She thought she should appear different. Maybe it was one of those things only Angela could See.

Nonetheless, her arousal was invisible yet still acutely tangible. She slithered out of her underwear without bothering the take off her dress or apron and dropped them into the hamper on the opposite side of the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer of the armoire, she was more careful in her new selection than the rational scientist in her wanted to admit.

Three deep breaths later, her skin tone was back to its norm though she still believed she was anything but. Dinner, however, awaited her presence. She only had a few scant hours to have the meal prepared and the image of him insider her vanished.

"Let's see if I have any beginner's luck left over from Vegas," she spoke to herself before mentally cringing. _Best not to remember being his fake fiancée when trying to forget about being his fantasy wife._

**  
THANK YOU everyone for the amazing encouragement! One of my most favorite things about writing is that other people tend to have much more confidence in my abilities than I do. Speaking of, please lemme know what you think of Bones "voice." Y'all have fed my muse to where she let Bren's fantasy take on a life of its own. The idea for a story about her making Booth a pie actually came first then the Highway Scene highjacked my brain so instead of doing two separate stories, I want to test run my M abilities with Highway and work in the Pie :)**

**Normally you'll hearing me screaming GEAUX TIGERS (senior at LSU), but since the Superbowl is in a week, WHO DAT! WHO DAT! See, I'm even leaving you a little video (/watch?v=cMSu4dOIsbg) of the great Aaron Neville (who is my favorite Christmastime voice) singing When the Saints Come Marchin In Who Dat style. And forget the levee's breaking, **_**when**_** the Saints win and then Mardi Gras within the next ten days… all of Louisiana is gonna drown with the sheer amount of alcohol. As soon as I find a good Mardi Gras Mambo video, I'll leave that you too, hahahah **


	3. Fox is Birthday

As predicted, the first thing Booth heard after exiting the shower was the sound of liquid spilling onto his tiled kitchen floor followed quickly by Parker's harsh, "Dang it!" Hastily running the bath towel across his lower half and once through his hair, he tugged on a pair a boxers and hurried out of his bed and bathroom.

"Kiddo, I could have sworn that I fed you dinner last night. Now I feel bad that you went to bed starved and were so hungry that you couldn't wait for me to get up for some breakfast."

Parker flipped around, startled and disappointed that he didn't get to finish before his dad woke up. He wiped the chocolate chips that had stuck to his fingers from Bisquick and milk on the back of his pajama pants. "It was supposed to be a surprise," he said, giving his father a sheepish smile (one his Mom said was identical to the elder Booth's). "I've been practicing and everything at Mom's house."

"Well, well, let's see how they've turned out, Bobby Flay." Booth quipped. His eyes took in the disaster zone that was now his counter. He nearly had a heart attack at the sight of the sizzling waffle maker.

The young boy followed his father's gaze. "I'll clean it up!" He rushed to say, grabbing the nearest towel – half soaked, half crusted over with batter – and swiping the bits and pieces of cooking ingredients into the trash. He then dropped the towel into the laundry basket that already contained an egg soaked sock that was behind him. Hopping on one foot to add his other sock to the pile, he asked, "Who is Bobby Flay?"

For a second, Booth was stunned. Yes, the voice was different. And yes, the facial expression wasn't quite right. Yet… the quizzical, intrigued tone was dead on. His son was turning into a squint. He knew he had it bad when Bones had invaded his life so much that it was even reflected in his kid.

"Dad?"

Booth shook his head to clear it before walking to open the waffle iron. "He's a chef on TV," he said, whistling at the perfect golden breakfast food. "These look really good, Bub."

"I'm not a little kid anymore, Dad. I can make breakfast." Booth shot him a look and he quickly dropped the pre-teen angst. "Happy Birthday!" He cheered, offering up a plate in forgiveness.

They made short work of the towering stack of waffles, trailing the sticky mess from the kitchen into the dining room. It was startling for Booth to realize that his son wasn't little, and wouldn't be considered a kid much longer. Soon Parker would be a young adult, making Booth truly an old man. But he'd enjoy these small moments he still had, before Parks started being more concerned with chasing girls than making breakfast for his father. He never liked the civil but sometimes vindictive tug-o-war him and Rebecca constantly found themselves in, and hated being a part-time father.

"What else are you doing for your birthday?" Parker asked as he constructed a smiley face out of syrup on his fourth (or was it fifth?) waffle.

Making a big show of swallowing the rest of his food before answering… as Pop's always said, 'monkey see, monkey do.' "Bones wants to make me dinner."

"Like with cake and ice cream?"

He laughed. "I don't know, maybe."

"Like a date?"

Booth wondered why kids never thought something _was_ something, only that it _was like_ something. "Probably not."

"Why? You should ask Dr. Bones out."

Choking, he banged on his chest to dislodge what had gone down the wrong pipe. "Chief, we talked about this."

"It isn't about the pool." Parker said, oblivious to his father's discomfort. "She likes you."

Booth scrubbed his hand down his face, not sure if he was about to take relationship advice from someone who didn't even have hair under their armpits yet. "Why do you think that?"

"She smiles at you a bunch when you aren't looking. Can I have the last waffle?" He explained as if it was no big deal and he didn't just announce that Bones stared at him.

"Let's split it."

"Thanks," he plunged his fork down the middle and continued. "She fights with you a lot too, but not real fighting. It's like the way Audrey does with Michael G at school so he'll pay attention to her."

"Umm…" he was at a loss.

"And you _looooove_ Dr. Bones," he carried on with a grin. "You mumble her name in your sleep. A lot."

"Okay Park, I think that's enough." Booth grumbled. It was news to him that he talked in his sleep. The only saving grace was that his son had said mumble and not moans.

There was a moment of silence before Parker jumped up with his plate and ran into the kitchen. "Dr. Bones and Daddy sitting in a tree, K – I – S – S – I – N – G."

Booth wanted to be mad, but he couldn't quite muster it. Grabbing his son, he tossed him over his shoulder. "You think you're funny, don't cha," he asked tickling his ribs.

"First comes loves," he squealed in between laughs.

Tickling him in the spot that made him squirm more than a twitchy-legged dog, Booth said, "I know someone who should stop singing."

"Never!" Parker took in deep gulps of air to try to catch his breath to say, "Then comes marriage!"

"Never is a long time, Son." Booth advised bouncing up the stairs, hoping he didn't throw out his back or end up with waffle sick all over him.

"THEN COMES THE BABY IN THE BABY CARRIAGE!"

Okay, so maybe he did have a few more good years left of his kid still being a kid.

* * *

When Booth first became the Bureau's liaison for the Jeffersonian, he never thought that he would get used to looking at dead bodies in such a scientific manner. He felt that one of the essential components of being human was that one never got accustom to death of their fellow man. It always affected you – he had learned that early on in life as a sniper. Yet, it wasn't until he had been introduced to the squint squad that his experience with the deceased had anything to do with the actual body. In the army it was about setting, timing, and loyalty. At the FBI it was about whom that person knew and what their life was like. His comfort zone was analyzing all of the little invisible nuances of a person, the soul of them. He never knew that that the bare bones of that soul could tell you just as much.

But that was then. Now, an autopsy was as standard as an interrogation. A new routine had been set. Catch a case, breeze into the Jeffersonian, tip his head to the security guard, swipe his access ID, bound up the stairs to the platform, talk with the squints, take shit from Cam or Angela on occasion, find his partner, nail the bad guy, feed said partner over paperwork. Easy. Rinse. Repeat.

His footsteps were already echoing across the lap and up the stairs even before the indicator light on the card reader had turned from red to green. A ghostly looking body was laid out on the table. A male, he thought, or a really big woman. Probably a drowning victim too, he guessed, on account of the grayish blue tint to the skin. _See Bones, _he mused to himself, _sometimes you don't need to squint as the pelvis and tissue aspirations._ He swung his gaze over to Hodgins who was occupied in feeding dirt into a jar of bugs. Dirt. Bugs. Not particulates and Latin species names.

"G-Man," Hodgins said, screwing on the lid of the jar and popping his latex gloves off. "Happy birthday." An envelope was thrown in the agent's direction.

Booth had a small inclination of what the present was since his gift from the bug and slime guy was the same shape and size as it had been last year. Already grinning, he flipped up the lip of the envelope and pulled out two flexible pieces of cardstock. "Hey, Redskin season tickets!" He clapped Hodgins on the shoulder, "You didn't have to do that man."

"Dude, you saved my butt in the car. What I gave you was little more than paper. Even if it wasn't exactly my bod you were killing yourself to save, I still owe you my life."

"Name you and Angela's firstborn Seeley and we'll call it even." He waved the tickets in the air for a second before slapping them against his palm. "This, however, is too much."

Deciding not to comment on the real implication of the statement, Hodgins couldn't help but laugh. "You've met Ange, right? Her middle name is Pearly Gates for Pete's sake. No way would she name her child after someone. It's going to be pronounced Nebula or Pilyape or something else that would surely get the poor thing's ass kicked." He shook his head, weary of the other possibilities. "And you take me to most of the games anyway. The gift was self serving." Although the conspiracy theorist loathed to be known for his family's lavish wealth, he never hesitated to bestow money on presents. He knew that Booth was, like Dr. B often pointed out, a proud alpha male. He had a hard time accepting anything of value from anyone. That's why Hodgins gave him (cue inner Godfather voice) an offer he couldn't refuse… the temptation of front row season tickets.

The _beep beep_ of the security system announced a third presence joining them on the platform. Booth turned to see Angela with a megawatt smile stretched across her lips and a striped bag dangling from her fingers. "Happy birthday, Mr. Present," she greeted in a saucy Marylyn Monroe impression.

"You know, my birthday was never this much fun as a kid." Booth said. Actually, his birthday was a certifiable crap chute when he was younger so it gave almost anything the advantage toward awesome.

Angela handed him the bag, "Well let's see if we can surpass Christmas and birthday all in one go. I have to say that there is some pretty awesome stuff in there."

Booth reached his hand in and was at first confused when it hit soft fur. Tilting his head, the tissue paper crinkled as he withdrew a plush toy animal. "Oh, not funny," he deadpanned.

"Come on, a silver fox for a silver fox. His name is Bastienian." Behind her, Hodgins attempted to stifle his laughter and tossed Booth a look that clearly stated _I told you so_. She shot the bug man a glare before turning back to Booth. "Keep going, there's more."

Next came a very nicely framed photo of Parker that she must have taken while she watched his son on the day he was determined to find his old man a girlfriend since he was covered in face paint. There was also a packing tube wrapped like a piece of candy that he opened to reveal a caricature she had done. He whistled, impressed. "It's amazing, Ange. This little baby will be hung in my office tomorrow." The drawing was of him, Jared, and Parker with their bodies in the form of bottles. His label was Booth while Jared was Booth Lite and Parker as Mini Root Booth.

The artist took a small bow. "Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause please." She smiled at Booth, taking a half-step toward him to nudge shoulders. "Actually, I should really be thanking you. It's been a long time that I worked on something that wasn't a reconstruction. I didn't realize how much I had missed the subject of the living. But, enough about me. It's your day and I think you'll _lurve_ what's left in there."

If Booth had been confused by the stuffed fox, then he was positively puzzled to find a receipt when he had opened up the little white box buried at the bottom of the bag. He held the slip of paper up to read, blinked, then looked again. His first thought was that he should be outraged about Angela's such blatant disregard for one's privacy. However, he couldn't stand to really be mad at her since he knew that her intentions and heart were in the right place. Plus it was a true test to her abilities at being able to make it seem like the room had risen ten degrees and his clothes suddenly feel restrictive with such simple black text.

The paper in question was a credit card receipt for a one T. Brennan from a small boutique downtown called _Tres Belle_. Unlike most lingerie shops that had cheesy giveaway names as to what exactly it was that they sold, _Tres Belle_ was a high end place that sold an array of women's wear but was most well known for their intimate apparel department. And according to what he held in his hand: Bones had purchased a lilac silk robe, a sheer babydoll in vintage wine, two sweetheart blouses, an aquamarine nightie, ruby stilettos, three lace bras - Booth swallowed, his throat dry as the Sahara - and a bustier with several sets of lace boyshorts.

"Alright what gives," Hodgins asked at the way Booth was had tensed and seemed to be sweating. Sure signs of a man on edge. "Is the paper a signed promise from Dr. B saying that she would give him a lap dance or something?"

"Close actually," Angela smirked. "Receipt from the little shopping spree Brennan and I had at _TB_ the other day."

"Woah ho, dude!" He laughed, amused at the way the partners in crime seemed to want to stretch the sexual tension like a rubber band on the cusp of breaking. "And Ange, so devious," he added appreciatively.

"Yep, normally I have to drag her there. But Monday afternoon she showed up at my office asking if I wanted to go with her after work."

Booth's head jerked up. _Monday_. "I'm going find Bones." He announced, marching toward her office.

"She's not there." Angela said offhandedly, still cracking up with Hodgins about the last surprise. "She went home."

As if he were still in the army, Booth came to a solid stop before pivoting on his heal in one smooth step to retreat back to the platform. "She went home? When?"

"Took a half day, said she had something important to do."

Although her words were casual, Angela had that sparkle in her eyes that stated she knew exactly what was going on. Bones never took half days. "I gotta go," Booth muttered distractedly, placing the envelope from Hodgins in the other gift bag with his movements on autopilot.

He was halfway across the lab floor when Cam came out of her office. "Oh hey, stay right there. I have a present for you." She started to twist to go get it from her desk but she stopped when he breezed past her as if she was merely air.

"Gotta go, Cam. Thanks." He uttered, never breaking his stride and disappearing from view as the security doors swished closed behind him.

Crossing her arms, Cam looked up at the two on the platform. "Do I want to know that explanation?"

Snapping back on his gloves, Hodgins said, "Dr. B took a half day."

"She's cooking the birthday boy dinner," Angela grinned.

A smug smile came over Cam. "Ah. Should I collect my winnings from the pool now or later?"

* * *

You know how sometimes you get home and have no recollection of the drive there? One minute Booth was leaving the Jeffersonian, and the next he was walking up steps to his landing. His surroundings were a muted blur yet he was hyperaware. All the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. And his gut… well his gut _knew. _The force between him and Bones had become undeniable.

It seemed that the fates were finally smiling on him to have a spectacular birthday. After all, Bones said she had a promise to deliver on. Every time the thought of it, his pulse jumped.

He snorted to himself. _Just your pulse?_

Alright he was more revved than a fine oiled engine. He was firing in all cylinders, and his heart was way beyond overdrive. NASCAR, Indy 500, warp speed was a bit more on mark.

He loosened his tie with one hand while the other filled the cup from the edge of the sink full of water from the bathroom faucet. His shoes, socks, and suit jacket had been lost somewhere in the vicinity of his bed. He downed the glass in two gulps before filling it again. This time he went slower, consciously trying to calm himself. _Ohmmmm, _he mentally hummed, breaking off into a chuckle. The laugher helped, and he was able to think again.

Knowing that Bones had taken a half day - something that was unfathomable to him until now - in preparation for his birthday dinner was big. With the added fact of her shopping excursion on Monday, it appeared like she was covering all the bases. He didn't want to get his hopes up since going in without expectations detoured being disappointed. But at worst, it seemed coincidental and Bones would just happen to be wearing sexy new undies when they sat down for dinner. And at best, it seemed that she was trying to seduce him. Either option was satisfying to entertain.

And both scenarios point at signs to a great night. Glancing in the mirror, Booth rubbed his hand over his five o'clock shadow. When a lovely woman takes off work to cook you dinner, one should shave. Yet… he couldn't get himself to reach for the razor.

He knew that Bones could explain the many anthropological reasons why, but he didn't need the historical mumbo jumbo. She could balk at his alpha male tendencies until her heart was content. He knew better. On the mornings he was rushed and didn't have time to shave, he could feel her laser like eyes feast upon his jaw line in the SVU. She tried to be subtle, sure, about as subtle as Bones could be at least. But, it was hard for someone who part of their job was to read people's body language not notice the way her gaze said her flawless skin was itching to be roughed up by his _manliness._

Booth smirked at himself in the mirror. Bones may want to seduce him a little, and maybe he wanted to seduce her a little too.

He was out the door forty five minutes later, after having taken a shower, changed, and put away clean dishes from the dishwasher. He didn't want to seem too eager by arriving at her apartment well before dinnertime, but he also felt like a schmuck puttering around his apartment stalling for time. He stopped off at the specialty grocery store a few blocks away from her place where she got her organic vegetables and soy milk to grab a bottle of the wine he knew she liked. Pop's advice still rang true – never show up to a gal's home empty handed. Though he was tempted by the selection of fresh flowers near the check out, he feared it would scare her off and do more harm than good.

When Booth did finally knock on her door, it was a quarter after seven. Although he had a short pep-talk to himself before getting out of the car as a reminder that it was only dinner, he was not prepared for what he saw when she swung open the door. He had seen Bones dressed to the nines at Jeffersonian gala events and he had seen her fishing remains out of various sludge filled places, yet somehow the soft look in front of him tugged at his heart strings most of all.

Her dress was a coral pink halter made out of some fabric that hugged her hips before flaring out to brush faintly below her knees. The blue gingham apron splotched with flour covering it gave her a fifties look. Considering he couldn't recall her ever wearing nail polish, her bare feet topped with pink as well seemed oddly intimate for something so innocent. He could tell she was wearing eye liner but otherwise was devoid of make-up. The heat from the oven seemed to the culprit for the flush in her cheeks rather than any manufactured blush. The earrings peeking out from behind her slightly curled hair used to be her mother's. He knew because the one he saved from New Orleans she always put in her left ear though he never asked why.

"Booth?" she asked, a curious smile on her face. They hadn't established a time for their dinner, but he was earlier than she expected. And she could feel the weight of his gaze as it roamed across her body.

As his gaze jerked away from the only other piece of jewelry she was wearing, a drop pendant necklace dangling enticingly close to her cleavage, his eyes met her amused ones.

"Hi honey, I'm home."

**First things first, I'm uber uber uber sorry that it's taken so long for an update. I'm horrible! A new chap of Dead of Night should be coming soon as well. I'm going to respond to all of you lovelies who have reviewed (shout out to the lurkers as well!) and I'm sorry in advance if you hear from me twice since I have forgotten who I've responded to already. There is only one maybe two more chapters of this. And the finale? Gah! That makes me want to start a story on it but I'm thinking that would be a bad idea on account on my updatage skills. :D As always, lemme know whatcha think.**


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